Given You All That I Can
by demelzap
Summary: Dave Batista ponders a change he's not happy about late at night.


**Disclaimer: Character names used without permission, no disrespect is intended, lyrics used without permission**

**Given You All That I Can**

"Coming out for a drink with us tonight big man?" Ric combed wet hair back from his face, turning from side to side to effectively judge the way it looked in the hazy mirror.

"Not tonight," was the quiet response. Always debonair, Dave finished the last button of his shirt, squinted over Ric's shoulder to catch his own reflection.

"Aw come on," Ric said, a disgusted edge entering his voice. He lowered the comb and turned to face the larger man behind him. "It took me months to get you to break out of your shell, you telling me now that you've been off the road for half a year I have to start all over again?"

The smile that touched Dave's lips was a cross between rueful and apologetic, "No Ric." He rolled his shoulders and turned to pick up his bag. "I learned your lessons well, but tonight," he slung the bag over his shoulder, "I'm tired. Not caught up with this hectic lifestyle again yet."

Ric turned back toward the mirror and raised a hand to slick one errant lock of silvery blonde hair into place. "It have anything to do with your whispered phone call earlier."

"Nothing gets past you old man," Dave said softly.

"Not much," Ric replied. He turned back and looked to the right and left, then stepped closer. He found Dave's hand and deposited a small package into his palm. "My advice," he raised his head so that his words found Dave's ear alone, "Is don't spend too much time brooding on it. Not your fault, not anyone's fault, these things happen. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by telling you there's plenty of fish in the sea, not now when the one you already had hooked got away. Give it time, but not too much time."

Dave closed his eyes, slipped his hand into his pocket, his voice a whisper, "I know Ric."

Ric stepped back, raised his now empty hand to pat Dave's shoulder, his voice louder now, "I'll give you a reprieve tonight big man," he said jovially, "But next weekend it's stylin' and profilin' again, and you better be hot to trot or I'll light a fire under your ass."

The smile wasn't forced, and Dave said, "You got it."

Dave managed to make it through the rest of the locker room unaccosted. Most of the rest of the crew either reviled his very existence, or were too intimidated to even approach him. He didn't care one way or another, he needed the solitude tonight.

In the rental he fiddled with the radio knob, unable to find anything but static to fill the short drive from the building to the hotel. He finally settled on some inane talk radio, it was better than the song that was stuck on endless repeat in his head.

_a man is drowning slowly, and he can't keep above, gone way too deep...one rainy day..._

The hotel lobby was empty, or so it seemed to his melancholy state. Perhaps he just blocked all outside stimulation out as he made his way with single-minded purpose to the elevator. Once he reached the haven of his room he relaxed, allowed the sorrow and fatigue to cover him. He didn't bother to turn on the lights through the soothing shower, and made his way through the room as if by memory. All the rooms had some semblance of conformity.

Even the mini-bar was where he expected. Cool air and the feeble light revealed not much, with a look of disgust he took out a bottle of beer, opened it and drank half in a long swallow. Around the edge of the bed to the other side, he sank down facing the window.

The flare of the match roused him slightly, Van Dam was the one years ago that had laughingly urged him to pack a candle, preferably one with a strong scent. He set the matchbook aside and retrieved his pants from the floor, rummaged through the pocket and found the package Ric had pressed on him earlier. Just enough for one night, that was all he ever needed.

His hands felt awkward as he attempted to roll the joint. His fingers and thumbs were too large to perform this routine task, but somehow he managed, and pinched the end together as he put it into his mouth. Flare of the match again, and he inhaled deeply.

The first hit always made him cough. He turned, bunched the pillows up against the headboard and drew his long legs up on the bed, sprawled naked over the scratchy sheets. The second hit was smoother, he slid down, eyes closed, head tipped toward the ceiling.

Every time he closed his eyes the litany started again. Angry voices, accusations. Another hit, he felt the warmth travel along his veins, relaxing all the tensions that had built up, easing the turmoil of adrenaline that fed the ugliness inside. Slowly the voices faded, replaced by something worse.

Soft lips, gentle fingers, a remembered scent. How many times had they been here, alone after a show in a darkened room. She knew how to touch him, knew every inch of his body. Her long legs would wrap around him from behind, the softness of her would touch his lower back. He would sit still and feel her lips explore every inch of the ink roughened skin of his back, feel her fingers trail down his sides, over his hips, settle around the erection that she brought about so easily.

In the quiet of the room he could hear the end of the joint crackle as he inhaled deeply again. The sweet smell curled up around his head, his joints loosened to an even greater degree, and a fog began to cloud his thoughts again.

"No," he said angrily, not sure if he spoke aloud or just in the passages of an over-tired brain. "No, not this time. You said you needed space, and I was forced to give you what you wanted."

He forced his thoughts away from the agony, flailed wildly for something else, anything else, and settled on a favorite pastime, a favorite fantasy. Slinky music accompanied a private show, a special ring entrance just for him. Saucy eyes, billowing black curls, the long coat flashed open to reveal her naked curves.

He groaned aloud, the stub of the joint burned his fingers and he set it in the ashtray on the bedside table. Fully engaged in the new vision now his hand dropped into his lap, clamped hard around the base of his cock, pushed down as his body surged up off the bed.

The vixen in his dreams bent and slipped between the ropes, approached him and touched the tip of her fairy wand to his nose playfully, blew him a kiss, then turned and made her way to the corner. She spread her legs, bent forward and looked back over her shoulder, beckoned him to her with her flashing eyes.

His hand worked faster, and he moaned again.

As the climax hit the vision shifted again. Long ropes of cum decorated his chest, but the shadowy woman in his mind was more familiar. Gone was the soft touch, in its place was disappointment. He stilled his hand, felt the final twitch, felt his body melt back down against the bed, knew when he opened his eyes he would be alone again. The candle sputtered, but the flame held true. Without opening his eyes he turned and blew it out then rolled away to the center of the bed.

_i swear i've given, i've given you all that i can, never will you ever make me feel this way again, on this one rainy day..._

_Distribution: TwoIntoOne only._


End file.
